


Flowery Youths

by johermione



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Love, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johermione/pseuds/johermione
Summary: The writing that was recovered often mentions words such as "sunlight", "laughter" and "youth".It also mentions a field of wild flowers decorated by not one, but two silhouettes. One resembles a girl and the other resembles a boy (but again, it's not clearly stated who is the boy and who is the girl and again, it doesn't really matter). One of them is of long limbs, loud laughter and freedom. The other one is of messy hair, eyes bright and smiles too wide for the world. And they are both of memories, fractured dreams, young hearts and old souls.(This is my Little Women fanfiction inspired by Taylor Swift's albums, folklore and evermore. It's following the canon, and it's of reflective nature more than anything else.)
Relationships: Elizabeth March & Josephine March, Theodore Laurence & Amy March, Theodore Laurence & Josephine March, Theodore Laurence/Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Old Souls and Young Hearts (the lakes)

"Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die. I don't belong, and, my beloved, neither do you."  
\- the lakes, Taylor Swift 

The thing about Theodore Laurence is that he's not Theodore Laurence. At least he's not just Theodore Laurence. He is a spectrum. Spectrum of emotions, personalities, timelines and lifetimes. He is so many things that he sometimes feels like he can't carry his own body. There is so much, too much of him. He is everyone, but he is no one. So instead of choosing to be a someone, Laurie chooses (to try) to stop everything from moving. He tries to stop emotions from flowing inside him. He tries to silence his running, devilish, unbearable thoughts. He tries to stop, numb, restrain himself. He tries everything. And everything doesn't work. 

Jo March knows Theodore Laurence the way she knows her books. She knows where the rough edges are. She knows where the happy chapters end and where the sad ones begin. But one thing she does not know is how to stop reading a book. Especially if the book seems to be endless. 

And somewhere along overwhelming laughs, warm hugs, shared clothes, hands held and lives waiting to unfold, Jo Mach learns how a person does not equal a story. A person is a storybook, each story different, each story complex, each one vivid. Each one true. 

Jo March knows this now. But she learned it the hard way. And she desperately wishes she could forget it. The only thing she seems to want these days is to forget. 

There is a Laurie and there is a Teddy. There are more people hiding inside Jo's best friend, but she believes these two are the ones every other persona of his orbits around. Out of them all, Teddy is the one she is most familiar with. Maybe because Teddy is her twin, a flipped image of herself, a character she's so closely intertwined with, she doesn't know where one of them starts and where the other one begins. Teddy is a creature of passion. A passion so big it could destroy him if he let it. He doesn't let it, but it eventually destroys him anyways. And Jo thinks she is the reason why Teddy is dead. Teddy, her Teddy, died on that hill, that malicious place where reality meets its start and dreams meet their end. He died with wind in his hair and fire in his heart. 

Teddy didn't love the world and the people around him. He burned for them. 

The only thing Jo has left of Teddy are flashbacks. Images of a young boy laying on the grass with his eyes closed, his fingers playing with flowers, his features relaxed, his appearance warm. No obligations, no talks of the future, no proposals, no lost homes. Just her and Teddy, Teddy and her. Them and nothing less. Them and nothing more.

***

Realisations are a thing of adulthood, thinks Jo, she now laying on the grass alone, the same grass she pictures her Teddy on. And the thing she is coming to realise is that there exists reality of the world and there exists reality of her own. Reality of the world is full of people. Hers is full of ghosts.

***

Jo wishes she never had to meet a Laurie. She was perfectly happy with a Teddy. Teddy was a part of her reality(before he too, like Beth, sweet sweet Beth, became a ghost). Laurie wasn't her friend. She always considered "Laurie" to be a part of that universal reality, reality she found herself running away from. Adulthood chased her, but reality was running away from her. It does be like that when you are living from memories. But the walls of her little world do indeed disappear at times. They do that when she least wants them too. And the last time the walls disappear is when she meets a Laurie. Laurie everyone knows and loves. But Laurie's hair is neat. His eyes look old. They look like they have seen much. Learned much. Changed much. His smile is unfamiliar. It can hardly be called a smile. It can't even be called a smirk because a smirk is supposed to be playful. This, this is not playful. This looks forced. It's a smile that she's seen before, usually at public gatherings. It's a smile people put on when they want to appear polite. You will never see that smile hanging from a child's lips. This smile is for adults and adults only. She said "always", promising love and friendship to this stranger wearing the face of a loved one, but she was certain nothing would ever be the same anymore. And she was right. 

***

Teddy was an extension of Jo. Or Jo was an extension of Teddy. It's not very easy to tell. Anyhow, they were one and the same. Teddy and Jo wanted the same things. Jo and Teddy craved adventures and freedom. Laurie and Jo are different. Their definition of freedom, different. Their wants and wishes, different. 

Castles in the air have fallen down and now, they were castles.

***

Laurie is an adult. And Jo is an adult too. 

Laurie accepted the world's reality. Jo, on the other hand, did not.

*** 

So Jo writes. She writes not to forget, but to let go. To set free. To set them, everyone and everything from "the before", free. And eventually, she succeeds in doing so. 

She sets them all free. 

*** 

Long after "Little Women" was published and Jo March had left this world an old happy lady of no one's but her own possession, her words were found on papers scattered across old wooden floors of her home. They were stories, little moments only ink can create a path to. Those moments don't know how time works. They have their personal little timelines of everlasting spirits and evergreen hopes. Existence for them is an immortal, a life an occurring, future merely a concept or an absurd thought. 

The writing that was recovered often mentions words such as "sunlight", "laughter" and "youth".  
It also mentions a field of wild flowers decorated by not one, but two silhouettes. One resembles a girl and the other resembles a boy (but again, it's not clearly stated who is the boy and who is the girl and again, it doesn't really matter). One of them is of long limbs, loud laughter and freedom. The other one is of messy hair, eyes bright and smiles too wide for the world. And they are both of memories, fractured dreams, young hearts and old souls. 

And under all of this scribbling, stuck under a chair, almost teared down to its core, exists a little note. Even though it's hard to read(or to understand if you're someone coming from the known and the boring and the cold), with a little effort, the note can be translated, and once you manage to do that, you will find the following words:

"And even though tragedy haunts our bones, it is not without a meaning or a greater thought. We existed and if one has to choose between existing and whatever lies behind the existing not, one should choose existing because there was never a concept or a dream or an escape door as beautiful and captivating as that feeling alone."

"I have to say that, although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there."  
\- Markus Zusak


	2. Horizons and Sunsets (invisible string)

Horizons and Sunsets

"Time, curious time, gave me no compasses, gave me no signs"  
\- invisible string, Taylor Swift

Concord, Massachusetts, 1868

Rays of sunshine playing on her skin. Soft grass under her fingers. Little specks of dirt scattered across her face. Leaves tangled up in her hair. It's not a common happening to be able to see yourself in such a way. A way that makes it seem like you are not you, but somebody else wearing somebody else's clothes, guarding somebody else's heart, owning somebody else's thoughts. Like you are only an observer, a background noise in your own life. These descriptions are usually used in unpleasant connotations, usually as metaphors, usually as another way of saying you feel transparent, forgotten and small. But in Jo's case, the phenomenon is not even a tiny bit metaphorical. Maybe it's the impact of the books. Maybe it's her imagination. Maybe it's just her. Whatever it is, Jo has always been able to see her life as a theatre piece, herself an audience member, her past self, no matter how far back she might travel to reach a certain memory, a performer. And Jo craves those moments of remembrance. She craves the feeling of transparency. She craves to exist less.

Everything she remembers, she remembers in flashes. Her memories do not understand concepts such as "chronology" or "order". Her brain resembles an unsolved puzzle. Every piece of information she has makes sense. But when to be put together with another aspect of her being, it does not fit. Nothing about her ever seems to fit. And now, she doesn't fit within herself.

No, Jo March is not a puzzle. Puzzle, no matter how difficult and complex, can be put together.

She's a living breathing contradiction.

What else to describe the utter ridiculousness of her mind? She is not happy and she is not sad. One second she is completely content with her life, the other, she is not. She wants to receive love, love and love, but she is afraid to offer it.

When Josephine March loves someone, she does not tell them. She does show, but never tells. She never uses the famous simple phrase. Never not once.

Her best friend burns for the people he loves. Jo burns for them in secret.

And here, as she is seeing herself splattered in sunlight, Jo March is preoccupied with three actions of extraordinary importance.

One is chasing ghosts.

Other is rearranging thoughts,

Final is accepting sunsets.

***

Paris, France, 1868

Theodore (yes, he is "Theodore" now) is not exactly sure where he is or how did he get there. His vision is blurry and his body feels heavier than usual. What is fascinating about his situation is the fact that consuming certain "substances", (and substances being of alcoholic nature), were supposed to prevail him from feeling like this. From feeling the way he's been feeling his entire life. Like everything around him was frozen and he was the only one moving. He was just too fast, too warm, too different. Enormous in emotion, reckless in thought. All of this often led to conclusions too horrific to comprehend, so he tried to avoid thinking.

The thought of having too many emotions might be terrifying. But the thought of having too much love for everything and everyone but himself was rather paralyzing. It was ridiculous to expect anybody to feel with as much passion as he did. It was ridiculous to demand such a thing from people. Why would anyone put all of their energy into someone else when there were so many things to be done in the world? But those other things rarely sparked an interest in him. Adventures, boarding schools, trips and experiences seemed irrelevant and hollow unless they were intended to be shared. It's funny how he always craved the one thing he never had. And when he finally got a glance of the love he so desperately wanted, he lost it because of his stupid absurd annoying emotions.

When Theodore Laurence loves someone he does not tell them. He screams it until his lungs are on fire.

His best friend loves with her whole entire heart. He loves with his whole entire being.

And now, vision blurry and body heavy, Theodore Laurence finds himself preoccupied with three actions of extraordinary importance.

One is chasing ghosts.

Other is rearranging thoughts,

Final is accepting sunsets.

***

Concord, Massachusetts, 1862

Step one: chasing ghosts

Sand beneath her bare feet. Water. Silent whispers of the sea. Birds. Colors. Nothing. Everything. Oh, to be crafted in such a way to believe you shall always be sixteen and silly and reckless and real. That is how Jo feels right now. Real. Right here, observing, enjoying, doing nothing but existing. And the sea! So mystical and wide, appearing endless in its presence, it looks like something in possession of a dream rather than this time and place. And the best part of this? Her family. They all resemble a painting in their natural messiness. Amy with her hair half wet, positioned in a way she believes to be ladylike, smiling at the horizon, sketchbook in hand. Meg, holding her hat so that it doesn't leave her in its desperate wish to follow the wind, shoes untied, eyes glistening from laughter she experienced seconds before. Beth, oh sweet Beth, kneeling by the water, touching the shining surface, mouth moving as though she is singing to the sea itself. Teddy is by her side, like he always is, sitting with his eyes closed, head held high up to the sky. He would probably refer to his current position as a way to "suck out all the marrow out of life", which always sounded a bit inappropriate coming from his mouth, but Jo loved the symbolism of the phrase, so she decided to put her friend's foolishness to the side.

"Isn't it simply ethereal, dearest Teddy?"

"Yes, I did indeed think my face had a particular glow to it this morning, your kind remark is very well appreciated, Miss March" came a teasing response shortly followed by a light smack to the arm (because Jo, being an experienced bookworm, always had a book weapon down her sleeve).

"Oh Teddy, you're such a boy sometimes. I find it quite disappointing really." said Jo being perfectly aware of the effect the comment might cause. Teddy shot her a look of a supposedly hurt individual, put a hand over his heart and exhaled loudly, as though he was a character in a Shakespearean tragedy. Jo rolled her eyes at the glamorous gesture, but pretty quickly, her features were changed with a thoughtful expression. She turned her head to Teddy timelines after, only to be greeted with a no longer playful, but a reassuring smile. He knew her too well.

"You know, it doesn't make it any less beautiful. The fact that it's all going to end one day, I mean. Quite the opposite actually."

She does not answer that. She gets up from the ground and extends her hand to him.

"If it's going to end, we might as well suck all of the existing marrow out of it."

"Oh, what a wonderful choice of words, dearest Jo!" he exclaims theatrically while gladly accepting her hand

"Oh, what a wonderful life, dearest Teddy."

And with that, they run to the sea, their lungs almost too full, smiles almost too big. Spirits almost too free.

Childhood is a thing of dreams.

Concord, Massachusetts, 1863

Step two: rearranging thoughts

Trousers under skirts. It's scandalous. Scandalous and inappropriate. At least that's what society will label it as. And society loves labels. But Laurie finds a solace of sorts in his friend's choice of clothes. He isn't sure how to explain it (he is not as good with words as Jo is), but it's comforting to see someone be so unapologetically themselves, whoever that person might be. He tells her this one day because he's Laurie and he isn't familiar with the concept of "silencing your emotions".

"Teddy, don't flatter, I told you I do not enjoy nor support such doings. You might as well go practice your gentlemanly manners on Amy, I'm sure she will accept your words of so called admiration with much more enthusiasm than yours truly." says Jo, her voice a tiny bit too loud, her thoughts meeting the outside world in grave speed. Laurie often finds himself wondering how one speaks with so much passion and rush, it's like Jo's sentences are running instead of flowing. She shares her mind without looking at him, her hands busy with rearranging the dining table previously covered with Amy's unfinished drawings and Beth's beloved dolls.

"I meant what I said, Jo. But since you believe I'm incapable of offering sincerity, I shall escort myself out."

He gets up from the place he was sitting at and rushes out of the March house, leaving his waistcoat behind him. Jo knows better than to follow him right away. She will bring him the forgotten object later, once he's ready to start unravelling burdens.

***

Night.

Light.

These two nouns aren't supposed to get along very well, yet here we are. Jo finds herself awake in the middle of the night, which circumstance she is no stranger to, but this time it is not her restless mind that steals her from the arms of dreamland. It's light. Jo gets up, careful not to make a noise, and looks out the window to further investigate the strange occurring. And the sight her eyes are met with is a sight so undoubtedly Teddy-like that she isn't sure if she will be able to forgive herself for not coming up with such a conclusion sooner. The house of her neighbour, who happens to be her dearest friend, is shining with what she presumes is light of about two dozen candles. The scene would've been inspiring, if not captivating, especially for a person of her making, but Jo knows Teddy and this cannot mean anything pleasant. Therefore, she decides to pay her fellow pirate a visit, armed with a forgotten piece of clothing as a faithful enough excuse.

Proud of herself for avoiding all the obstacles successfully (and the obstacles being sleeping family members who have yet to be introduced to the pleasures such as "sleepless nights" or "windows"), Jo runs to the construction once known as a house, now as a gothic castle and knocks. Her efforts are answered with a voice of not a person, but a peculiarly human like ghost.

"Who is it?"

"Do you really think I will dare share information of an importance so big, oh so grand, without seeing your face, kind sir?" says not Jo, but a righteous, noble knight, his devotion as admirable as amusing.

Laurie opens the door only to be met with a grinning Jo.

"I believe you have forgotten this, my friend."  
exclaims an unlike lady, kneels down and offers him his waistcoat in a way so grandiose, some might think she actually was a knight in shining armor, sharing sunlight, providing hope.

"Don't be a goose Jo" came a gentlemanly response followed by an annoyed sound and indifferent expression. Laurie turns around, but leaves the door wide open. Jo, understanding the message quite well, follows him inside to a candle lit room. Laurie approaches the piano and sits down as though he is about to start playing the instrument, but he doesn't confirm the logical assumption. Instead, he closes his eyes and remains like that for what feels like eternity, looking like a human statue. It would've been comical if it were anybody else, but Jo was familiar with Teddy's passion for extravagance. His behaviour does not spark laughter, but concern.

"Teddy, I think you should start explaining whatever it is you need to explain. Keeping it in won't do anybody any good despite you believing it will. I promise, you won't be a burden."

Laurie shifts in his position and exhales loudly, his eyes still closed. When he starts to speak, his voice is not his. It's distant and decorated with occasional trembles which he is desperately trying to avoid.

"When I told you today how I find solace in the way you carry yourself and how you wear trousers and don't care about what people think of you, I wasn't trying to mess around or anything. Sometimes... Sometimes I feel like I am not me... Like I'm not a good match for myself and I..." he opens his eyes at that, not sure if he wants to receive a response to any of the things he has just said.

"I am deeply sorry Jo, this doesn't make any sense, you can go, I don't know what came of me."

"Oh Teddy, but it does make sense! It makes so, so much sense." Jo doesn't say that like she wants to comfort him. She really seems to mean it. Their gazes meet at the exact same time, their eyes glossy (which observation they will both dismiss in immense respect to one another), their faces now beautified with soft smiles.

"You do realize you are wearing a night gown right?"

"I am not the one randomly lighting up candles, impersonating ghosts now, am I?"

"It's called dramatic effect, Jo! Dramatic effect! And keep the waistcoat, I never really liked it anyways."

***

After that day, Jo and Laurie's closets were left grieving for lost members of their separate societies. Blouses, neckties and waistcoats were introduced to the idea of travel and adventure. And even though the closets were left in grief, their owners were more than satisfied with the not so sudden change.

Youth is a thing of wonder.

Concord, Massachusetts, present time

Step three: Accepting sunsets

It's enchanting how one thing can supply so many thoughts, offer so many possibilities, have more than one meaning. And when it comes to meaning, Jo has always been searching for it. Trying to find some deeper sense of the things that surrounded her. Trying to find a reassurance that the world was worth her troubles. Jo needed to know how there was more to this life than just "being there". She was only willing to continue surviving if it were for a greater cause. She wanted to do something which would offer her a sense of purpose. But those were all wants of a child who expected too much of the society. Society which didn't know how to provide anything but chains, specifically crafted to hold back ideas. To silence individualism and encourage slavery. And Jo learned, not without resistance or rebellion, how there wasn't much she could do to change any of this. But what she could do is move forward. No matter how hard it might be. She could move forward and she could enjoy the things that were right there in front of her. Beauty is usually found in the most unlikely of places.

Things only gain meaning once you allow them to have one. And once you allow them to have one, they can immediately have many.

Jo's standing on the beach. It's the same beach she's been visiting her whole entire life, yet she feels like she's standing there for the first time. Despite her feet being again bare, despite Amy's hair being again half wet and Meg battling that same old hat. It's all different now. Everything is different. The sun, the birds, the wind, the colors, the water.

The people.

The perspective.

Meg might be battling that same old hat, but the hat is no longer hers. Its new owner (owner who shares a name with a flower) isn't a very good guardian, so Meg's battles consist of chasing the article of clothing all over the sandy shore.

Amy's hair might be half wet, but unlike before, it isn't she who is responsible for the unfashionable state it currently suffers from. It's all a tiny child's fault, a child so little, she could easily be mistaken for a doll.

There might be a Beth by the water, but it is not the same Beth that once was. Little Bess, previously referred to as a doll-like creation, is so wonderfully different from her late aunt. She is so wonderful that Jo might start to believe how "Elizabeth" is a sacred name, kept in secret and reserved only for the creatures worthy enough of its angelic form.

One thing that's also supposed to feel familiar, but doesn't, is the presence of a figure Jo used to acknowledge as her partner in crime or most sincere comrade. "Used to" because Teddy is not Teddy today. He hasn't been for a long time. He's Laurie. And it's not a bad thing. It's just not like it was. Jo turns her head to look at the man beside her. A few seconds pass before he returns the gaze. Even though his eyes are old and his hair is neat and his smile is not a smile, there exists a glimpse, a shadow of a young boy Jo will forever cherish. She firmly believed that boy was dead. She believed he died ages ago. She believed he was too bright to continue to exist and too fragile to try to come back home. The truth is, the boy never died. He only fell asleep, covered with a blanket made of dreams with no end.

Jo and Laurie observe one another for what appears like the first time in experiences. They stay like that for a few seconds, never getting closer, never further away from one another. Then both of them decide to look at the horizon, Laurie making the decision a tad bit quicker than Jo.

Heads held high, waistcoats unbuttoned, neckties left loose.

The sun before them is setting and every single part of the landscape screams in infinity, possibility and creation. It's all of blurred lines, nonexistent patterns and freshly created colors. And when she least expects to hear anything but the silent whispers of the sea, Jo is surprised to discover the words that leave Laurie's lips.

"Isn't it simply ethereal, dearest Jo?"

Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

\- Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."  
\- Oscar Wilde


	3. Escapism (seven)

"Please, picture me in the trees...

...before I learned civility."

\- seven, Taylor Swift

***

one.

\- Let's run away.

It's barely a whisper. It's said more to the open sky above them than to anybody else.

\- Let's run away.

It's more than a whisper now. It's a call. An invitation for something greater than both of them. And Laurie would gladly buy a ticket for that particular train. He would. But the sun is so wonderful and the clouds are so enchanting in their unusual shapes that even getting up seems like a chore. He wants to stay here. On the grass. But Jo is persistent in her wishes. Jo March never, never, gives up.

\- Won't you say something, Teddy? Can't you just see it? We could be anything, do anything, go anywhere! The world could be ours!

She, unlike him, is on her feet. She always seems to be. Gravity isn't very fond of Jo. Or at least that's what Jo will tell you. Laurie doesn't know if that's true or not, but he likes hearing her talk. He finds himself generally attached to sounds. The chipering of birds. The first note you play on the piano. Amy's chaotic laughter. Beth's soft chuckles. Meg's little mumbles. Jo's wild exclaims. That's one of the many reasons why Laurie loves the Marches. It's like these sisters have discovered an utterly fresh, vivid and extraordinary way to be alive. It's a pleasant contrast to what he's used to.

It's always quiet at home.

"What do you say Theodore Laurence, kindest and most noble of knights of this kingdom? Shall we follow the wind and see where it leads us?"

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

"Then you accept my proposal?"

"I sure do, Miss March."

People's faces usually look radically different when lightened up with smiles. They look prettier, more beautiful and somehow truer to themselves as opposed to non smiling faces. Jo's doesn't. She is smiling at him right now and her face doesn't look any different. It's just as true and warm as it was a thousand smiles before. And would Laurie even be allowed to call himself a comrade of Jo's if he didn't gift her with a smile of his own in return? He grins at her with no specific thought behind the expression. This is how people are supposed to be smiling, he thinks. Wide and real. Yes, people are supposed to be smiling just like this.

For a second, Jo and Laurie are the same person. Hair wild, shirts half unbuttoned, cheeks flushed. Laurie's hands are splattered with dirt from the ground whose hostility he was taking advantage of moments prior. Jo doesn't seem to care about that. Once he's up and standing, she grabs his arm a bit forcefully (which he doesn't mind), a bit theatrically (because this is Jo and life is a theatre piece) and they start running, both of them now embellished with dust. There's a lot of stumbling (and stumbling is blamed on the seemingly nonexistent objects that appear and disappear under commands of fairy like creatures) and there's a lot of laughter (laughter that comes in its most natural form and doesn't show any interest in being contained under anyone's wishes, especially not the ones of the world).

"Oh dearest, the world might not be for us, but us we are for the world."

***

two.

Freedom is both the most basic and the most complicated aspect of life to be gained. It is so simple of a concept, one could easily and rightfully so believe how all of thought guardians (more commonly referred to as humans) should have the right to not only experience, but spend their entire lives swimming in shinning lakes of freedom. But it's not how it all works. Some have tiny bits of freedom. Some don't have it at all. Some have loads. Some have just enough. Too much, sadly or sadly not, have none. 

Jo sometimes wishes she were a tree. High up in the sky, stretching out her branches towards infinity.

Imagination is of grave help despite what anyone says. To a normal person, the tree is just a tree. Tree and nothing else. To Jo March, a tree is so much more. It's an opportunity. An adventure. It's a solace and a home. A sanctuary. She's climbing up one of her leaf providing friends as she's trying to figure out how to describe this moment the best. Her reflections are interrupted by a voice which surprisingly doesn't come from the bellow, but from the above instead. Once Jo spots the speaker's ground conquerors (or "shoes" if you are of dull old sameness and don't find the pleasure in crafting phrases unlike our Jo), she immediately recognizes their owner. She still isn't sure why Teddy let Amy paint his shoes with images of flowers, but she is mesmerized with the final result. And although she shall never share this with the oh, so great artist, Jo thinks Amy's creations to be exquisite.

"I presume you are coming here to put your mind at ease."

"That is correct, my boy, and I suppose you are here for the same cause. "

By the time they exchange these lines, Jo has already climbed up to the place where Laurie is. She finds herself a steady enough branch and rests her head against the surface of the wood. Laurie is positioned in a similar way, his leg gently swaying to a peculiar beat of his own making.

Two figures, who almost seem to be one with the wooden fellow, occasionally take an exceptionally deep breath. Their hands colored with bruises, souvenirs from many extraordinary expeditions, their clothes decorated with leaves. Seemingly they are flowers, nature is their most beloved companion.

It's quite a story how Jo and Teddy, these flower resembling humans, coexist without many syllables shared. The phrases they do sometimes grace each other with can end up being translated as meaningless or lacking in thought. But Teddy and Jo, among everything else, are inventors. They invented a language which only functions for them. What is mean to others represents to them a code. What is strange to some, playful and witty to them it is. What is impossible to comprehend, they understand with little to no effort.

"Language of flowers is a language of flowers for a reason. Nobody, but flowers, thinks it much sense."

***

three.

"I'M ALIVE! LOOK AT ME, EARTH!!! I! AM! BREATHING!"

This is just one of the many declarations that have furiously been shouted at the void today. Young people often have trouble befriending compromises, especially if those compromises are to be made with the creatures you live in close proximity with. Jo has again been fighting with her sisters for reasons she cannot exactly recall right this instant. It's funny, because this always happens to her. Something sparks her temper, she recklessly gives into it and at the end, it's all about the anger she doesn't know how to release. She usually goes on long walks or takes deep breaths. She basically tries to isolate herself from everyone until the storm passes.

Teddy has a different solution for her troubles, troubles that naturally turn out to be his troubles too because they are Jo and Teddy, Teddy and Jo, and they have the same troubles (which is both wonderfully relieving and awfully annoying at the same time). Jo wouldn't even call Teddy's solution a solution. They are both making these announcements of nonhuman frequency and dancing their heads off, and as ridiculous as it is, Jo feels it liberating. They aren't improving anything (just the opposite, screaming random things into the air represents the peak of impulsive behaviour) and the conclusion is: no profitable discoveries in the "containing yourself" department. But who cares? Sometimes you have to let it all out. Dance and shout the worries away. It wasn't a coincidence that Jo met Teddy under the circumstances that she did. They were both of hot tempers, strong wills and free spirits. And they needed to dance it all out out. Despite the absurdity and inappropriate mannerism a foreign eye would most certainly find in their actions.

"There exists no right nor wrong way to express one's self."

***

four.

Laurie is surprised with how much he is enjoying this. It's all very simple. Yet, he feels at peace. He feels like everything inside him has a chance to rest.

It's the fireplace and captivating movement of the fire flames.

It's the soft "click" he discovers every time Meg takes a step. Her shoes are marvellous singers.

It's the chattering of dishes he recognizes somewhere in the background. It must be Beth, cleaning the table after the meal.

It's Amy giggling mischievously after coming up with what Laurie supposes to be some kind of scheme or more accurately, a master plan. He wouldn't know what is it about, but whatever it is, Amy is destined to succeed in it.

It's Jo. This is all because of Jo. He wouldn't have come across the hidden delights of the "uncomplicated" and "boring" if it weren't for her. She takes a seat beside him interrupting the spectacular date he had with the fireplace, rests her head on his shoulder and sighs. It's like this with them. Touching has never been a big deal.

"Beautiful."

That's all Jo says. "Beautiful." He doesn't question it. He understands what she means even though he cannot explain it. He understands.

"Warmth. Choreographed chaos. Lines overlapping. Minds intertwining. Familiarity greeting you "hello". People. Family. Home."

***

five.

She cut her hair. She cut her hair and everything is supposed to be at least a little better if not completely fine. But she can feel the tears forming in her eyes as she's approaching the house. The money in her pocket is so incredibly present. No, the money is not just present in her pocket. Everything those dusty pieces of paper represent carries weight. A weight so grand Jo could swear there is somebody following her, kind of like the money has taken the shape of a person and is now accompanying her, monitoring her every move. What kind of world sees a green, ugly paper and claims of it a metaphor for greatest treasures? And the tears? The tears she cannot comprehend. Why would she care? It's just hair. If anything, she should be bursting with joy right now. She got rid of the womanly burden. But it doesn't feel right. It's all extremely selfish of her. Selfish and thoughtless.  
Her sister is... not well. Her father is out there doing all sorts of heroic things and instead of crying over her sins, she's crying over this. For once she does something right, for once the part of her that's wrong different isn't screaming. And then it hits her. It's not just a part of her that's different wrong. It's her. The moment she realises this she steps into the house. Everyone is either too distant or too close to notice all that is hiding underneath her seemingly admirable actions.

Her body is barely handling the atmosphere. It's barely cultivating the facade. But her body is also covered with Teddy's waistcoat and just as she remembers this little fact she sees her best friend right there in front of her. He is not too distant nor too close. He is right where she is.

They have the same hair.

Jo is pulled towards him because this is Teddy and hugging Teddy is like hugging herself. They stay like that for a moment, their realities greeting each other like two fellow soldiers, finally reunited in battle.

It doesn't make her feel any less hollow. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't alter the wrongs. But it does make it a little better. It offers an assurance. An assurance embodying validity so present, money can do nothing but hold a candle to. An assurance of rational absurdity. Because that's what Jo and Teddy are.

They are rationally absurd.

"It's a childish belief that all twins look the same. There exist many ways to be somebody's twin."

***

six.

She is holding his hand.

He has just told her how he doesn't fit within himself. He has just told her that and she is still here, laying on the floor with him, covered with blankets. She said it made sense. She must have been too tired or something. She must have misheard. She must have.

"Jo, are you there?"

She does not respond. She only squeezes his hand. It's not about the gesture itself. It's about everything the gesture holds.

Promises. Lifetimes. Daylights. Midnights. Setting suns. Growing spirits. Flowery Youths.

She is holding his hand.

" Mutuality sure is a wonderful creation. What is more wonderful though is mutual understanding. Mutuality means the returning of the same. Mutual understanding means accepting and loving of the different."

***

seven.

"I could run away for real this time. Explore the unknown, unravel the mystical. Encounter the miracles. Touch the heavens..."

Her words are empty. They don't mean much. They are empty and desperate. Empty, desperate and meaningless.

Her sister got married. Meg got married and she is talking to herself about running away. The wind is dancing with her again long enough hair, tangling its fingers into her rough curls, reminding her of the countless times it has done the exact same thing before. Mocking her with its endless supplies of stability and comfort. Jo is leaning over the wooden fence, despite the wishes of her dress which keeps complaining about her unlady like methods. Jo honestly does not care about the fancy bridesmaid dress and its wants. If one has the will to climb fences, one shall enjoy the act of doing so, no matter what some piece of fabric might have to say. She is trying to hold back rivers her eyes miserably wish to let flow. She cannot cry. She must not. She has an ongoing bet with Teddy about this. He was daring enough to assume she will turn herself into a paddle today and she ought to prove him wrong.

"What might a lady like yourself be doing here instead of enjoying the jolly ceremony out there in the open?"

"I am no lady Teddy, my being is in no need of such chains."

Laurie doesn't pressure her into answering the question (she would have answered it in the first place if she had intention to) and steps on the fence beside her. He starts humming a random melody, rhythmically moving his fingers to the sound. He must be composing something again, thinks Jo and silently envies his creative range. It's been too long since she's written anything worth sharing.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Everything."

"Isn't that a bit too much of things?"

"Oh, it's just a little over the top Teddy, but I believe I can handle it. This mind is no stranger to overcrowding."

The same tree they used to climb when they were younger is now observing them, representing an eternal and haunting reminder of everything that once was, reminder of the early youth. Jo is frightened. That silent way in which Teddy is looking at her is frightening. He is looking at her in ways she longs for to be different and his eyes have too many freshly discovered stories to tell. She is frightened she won't find those stories to be very pleasant.

"Do you remember that day when I told you how I wanted to run away?"

"How could I not?"

"I need to run away again."

Laurie doesn't need to hear it twice. He jumps over the fence and starts running, his arms widely spread, his tie and jacket long forgotten. It isn't real. Jo knows they will never go anywhere. The sun is setting and the lines of separation are clearing up. The sun is setting and challenges, struggles and complications lie ahead. She knows all of this. Yet, she hikes up her skirts like she's sixteen again and follows the path her boy has chosen for as long as she knows how to. Jo and Teddy run through the endless fields of gold, specks of sunlight meeting their bones. Teddy and Jo, Jo and Teddy, high in the sky for one last time before nightfall.

They keep falling over each other and eventually end up wrestling on the grass, occasional screams and consistent laughter adorning the air around them.

The last song of Meg's shoes. The last symbol Amy will ever paint on Jo's hands. The last wide smile of Beth's. The last understood conversation of birds. The last fellow of the trees. The last arrangement of flowers.

The last.

The last.

The last.

"Oh, to live in a world where there are childhoods, fields of gold and raging hearts."

"Grab a coat, leave a note and run away with me."  
\- William Chapman


	4. Flickers of light (gold rush)

"What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?"

"I don't like that falling feels like flying till the bone crush."

\- gold rush, Taylor Swift

"single daydream where you get lost in thought for a minute and then snap out of it.”  
\- Taylor Swift, on gold rush

Nice, France, 1868

Everything looks painfully artistic in the rain. It’s like suddenly, life is a painting. Movements turn into colours, pavements become landscapes. Here, utterly mesmerized by her surroundings, Amy March doesn’t see people. She sees flickers of light.

There exist many peculiar ways to look at things One object can represent almost anything depending on the person whose attention it captivates. Amy desperately wishes to immortalize her perspective. She craves to capture all of her feelings, everything her eyes have ever had the pleasure to meet. The scenery she's fortunate enough to be a part of is a scenery only a foreign city can provide.

When Amy arrives back to her hotel room, she finds herself to be in some sort of arrangement with the rain drops. It's silly because she has no memory of having any direct interaction with the weather today, yet her rather soaked appearance is telling a different story. She must have accidentally gotten lost in her marvellous surroundings. Concord, after all, is no match for Paris.

When she finally brings her looks to a descent level, Amy takes her french books and forces herself to encounter the magic that is the language of love. She loves french, she really does, but she used to study from fun and because she liked the sound of the words. It all made her feel like a lady, like someone she never in reality had a chance to be. But now, when she was indeed a lady, it felt like more of a habit than anything else. She wanted to excel in this, she wanted to be the greatest french speaker there ever was. But she simply couldn't find the motivation. Her paintings, her unfortunate creations, occupied her mind still. For them, she had the motivation. She had the time and space. She had everything. Everything except excellence.

They weren't good enough.

To an untrained eye, they were perfect. To a stranger, they were just fine. To a fellow artist, they were interesting. To her sisters, they were masterpieces. To her and to her reality they weren't good enough.

Amy sat in silence, french textbooks long forgotten, eyes glued to the foggy window.

Everything looks painfully artistic in the rain.

***

People will tell you that Amy is mad. They will tell you she is picky, stubborn and impossible to satisfy.

Amy will tell you the same thing.

***

The art atelier was glowing. It wasn't a metaphor or anything (metaphors fell under Jo's area of expertise). In actuality, it was glowing. The rain from the day before was replaced with astonishing rays of sunlight. But even then, specks of water were still visible. Amy found inspiration in that. She again felt like she needed to immortalize the moment.

So, Amy decided to paint.

She was painting all of the things that were inside her.

She was painting herself.

***

Amy woke up every day and every day her painting woke up with her. Hours were spent in the art room. Layers of colours, structure and observations were added to the creation with each passing moment. Still, Amy felt she needed to do more. Be more.

Great or nothing.

***

"I think this is as far as I can go."

It's said to no one in particular. It's pronounced loudly, as if it was meant for someone to hear it. Yet the only available listeners were the unbothered statues of Greek gods. Amy was annoyed by their presence. They just kind of stood there, judging her, mocking her for not being able to give birth to something marvellous. Amy stared at her now supposedly finished painting, the personification of uselessness. She knew it. She had known it for a long time. She had to give up her foolish artistic hopes.

Great or nothing? Right...

***

Dreams are just that. Dreams. They don't come true. You have to work and struggle in order for them to enjoy the same oxygen as you. You work and struggle even though you may get nothing in return.

***

Dreams, freshly discovered and pink coloured dreams.

Dreams, innocent, unaware, untouchable dreams.

Dreams, doubtful, changed and windy dreams.

Dreams, undevelopedly developed dreams.

Dreams.

***

The world wanted to crown her its ornament.

The world claimed her its diamond, its possession, its jewel.

The world she did not blame. Her blamed the world.

Incandescent. Amy felt an incadescent love for life. She felt love for clumsy passengers, long forgotten scarfs and giant ball rooms. And as much as the world blamed her, she still loved it.

It was the way sun rose up every morning. The way a hand is held and never dropped. The way everything is constantly moving and craving and breathing.

She will never be smart. She will never be a genius. She will never be great. It's these thoughts that haunt her, restrain her and hold her back. The world is so bright, so full of incredible, bright individuals. The world is so bright, and she's barely a spark.

***

People will tell you that Amy is a patient observer, a collector of light and a fantastic french speaker (even though she didn't use to be).

People will. Amy will not.

***

Concord, Massachusetts, 1871

It's already been a couple of years since Amy has left Europe and returned to Concord. Right now, she is nurturing flowers, big bright yellow hat decorating her golden locks. Her husband is on the back porch, carefully holding a tiny person. It's her Bess. Her daughter. Amy's standards may have been hard to reach, but her little Bess surely is a work of art. Sunlight is blessing her eyes. Sound of birds is blessing her ears. Her senses are wonderfully awake.

Amy never touched a paintbrush after Paris. Her last painting was brought to Massachusetts because Laurie insisted on it. He said something about her last drawing (her drawing of him) and her last painting being meant to coexist in the same universe. He hung them in the living room. Amy allowed it because it made Laurie smile. She has always loved seeing people smile.

***

Concord, Massachusetts, 1882

"Elizabeth, where are you? You haven't finished your homework! What are you doing for heaven's sake?"

"I think this painting is talking to me mom."

"Bess..."

"I clearly don't mean it in a literal sense. It's just that it resonates with me, despite the fact that I'm not familiar with its creator. It's like somebody's reaching towards me, trying to share their story."

"I think it a bit absurd. I still don't understand why your father likes it so much."

"Well, I think it to be...incadescent. Yes, that's the right word. Incadescent."

Bess continued to look at the painting.

Amy smiled.

Great or nothing, huh?

***

Sunlight only exists because it's made of rays. Rays of sunlight only exist because they are made of light. Light only exists because it's made of flickers.

Specks. Flickers. Light.

"She,  
In the dark,  
Found light  
Brighter than many ever see.

She,  
Within herself,  
Found loveliness,  
Through the soul’s own mastery.

And now the world receives  
From her dower:  
The message of the strength  
Of inner power."

—Langston Hughes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What if I say gold rush is about a person who feels the pressure of everyone loving the same thing they do? It's like you thought something was only yours, but then other people liked it too, and suddenly, you weren't good enough. I guess I'm saying it doesn't have to be looked at from a romantic angle. It can represent the struggle of an artist who desperately wants to do something splendid and be original, but can't because everyone else is already doing the same thing? Or they think everyone else is doing the same thing?"
> 
> I wrote this paragraph some time ago and it was the exact thing that led me to writing this chapter. I'm not sure if everyone is going to agree with my impression of Amy, but I always felt like she loved the things around her with burning passion. Of course she's realistic and mature, but I think she's also extremely passionate. I think she feels things in a big way. While Jo has more of a "the world holds nothing for me so I ought to make it better" mentality, Amy is more of a "the world has so much to offer and I have nothing to give in return". Now, her not being able to offer something worth remembering is mostly in her head and that is why I added the Bess part at the end. Every person is important and means something great to someone. As I like to say: we, as humans, are all constantly decorating each other's portraits. You may not be a genius (and it takes strength to admit such a thing to yourself which makes Amy ten times more memorable), but you impacted someone. Your life, all on its own, has a meaning and a purpose.
> 
> You matter.
> 
> *I also like to believe that Bess learned the word 'incadescent' from her aunt Jo


End file.
